


Time Management

by Anarchyinplasma



Series: Semblances: A study [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:39:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at what it might be like to use Ozpin's semblance as we perceive it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Management

**Author's Note:**

> As of current episodes we have no idea what Ozpin's semblance is, and I thought this up, so I thought I'd put it on paper.

Ozpin was often pensive, his views varied and well researched through matters of philosophy and science, but what had sparked that initial attitude was an event that would shape him for the rest of his life; the first time he used his semblance. 

When he uses his semblance everything grinds to a halt, moving so slowly he can pick out an individual bullet, he can see it puncture every raindrop in its flight path, watch as the vapour trail coalesces behind it before spreading out and dissipating in a shimmering arc, he can see it turning, watch for the subtle grooves cut into the rounds surface by the rifling of the barrel, as they rise and fall in synchronous rhythm.

He can watch the explosion as the round leaves the barrel, the smoke curling gracefully through the air, belying the lethal impact of the bullet itself. It is possible, in that microscopic portion of time, that he can reach out and pluck the bullet from the air, admire its structure, put it back on a different flight path or turn it straight to dust in his palm.

Often he can see the crimson arc as blades part flesh, tiny sharp stones of a slaughterous shade hang suspended in air, a beautiful if morbid sight, as the perfectly cut stones of polished crimson start to deform, becoming deep ruby slivers in a rain upon the earth, he watches that too, in awe at the sights to be seen.

He steps out of lines of gunfire as if on an afternoon stroll, slowly meandering across the battlefield. He reaches out and casually plucks the bullets from thin air; he admires one for a moment, the aura infusing is top notch, and the gun it was fired from is very high quality but it's useless when you can't hit the target.

In those moments he is free, he has all the time in the world to plan his next move, to ensure minimum or maximum damage depending on the situation, he walks slowly around the endless stream of rounds loosed at him by his enemies, easily sidesteps a clumsy and overly telegraphed paw, all with a slight grin on his face, after all, he has all the time he could want.

It really is a most beautiful way to see the world.

But it haunts him, in his more contemplative hours, as he ponders on a coin slowly turning in the air before him, heads and tails rotating gracefully before his sight, each giving way to their polar opposite turn after turn. Because he knows nothing can last forever, no matter anyone's skill, even with the ability to rewind a certain being in time, a skill that can pierce the veil of life and death itself however briefly; he knows the one he has resurrected must once again suffer the death they were given.

But he can still save them, drag them backwards through time before the building can collapse on them, rip them from the path of flames. It's this he holds onto, in his dreariest times, as he remembers he can save as many people as long as he is fast enough to do so. And after all, for those brief moments, he has all the time in the world.


End file.
